playing with fire
by i set my sims on fire
Summary: He watches as the fire ignites with a sort of satisfaction that takes a little bit of feeling away - Connor/Imogen.


**Warning: this story contains bad language and a mild reference to self-harm.**

**Also, the random sentences in capital letters are some of Connor's thoughts. This fic is a bit of a mess, so I'm sorry for that.**

****playing with fire

Connor holds his pillow over his ears and shuts his eyes real tight, but he can still hear his mother downstairs, shaking and crying because he poured all of the alcohol down the drain and why can't she understand he's doing it for her own good?

I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

He wants to go downstairs and hug her, hug her really tight and tell her 'it's okay, it's me mum, I'm here' but he knows she won't listen, he knows she'll push him away.

He holds a finger up to his face, strokes the incision on his cheek and wishes he could make excuses for her.

'It's not her fault!' except it is, and who the hell is he lying to, anyway?

I CAN'T HEAR YOU, MUM.

He remembers going into school, seeing Imogen. She smiled at him, first, and greeted him with a quick kiss but then she looked at him and concern covered her face.

'What happened to you?' she asked, and he shrugged.

'I fell over. Don't worry about it,' and then he smiled as if it was nothing and put his arm around her and wondered if she knew.

That's the thing with Imogen; she's way too good at figuring him out.

Christine is still crying downstairs. He hears a crash, a smash, and presumes she's chucked something at the wall in frustration. He closes his eyes tighter, clenches his fist, curled up into a ball on his bed.

He hopes for- he doesn't know. He doesn't know what he's hoping for. For his mother to kick the drink? For her to get better? To get better for him?

He knows what the doctor said. Alcoholic hepatitis. And he knows that his mother is in danger, because if she has another drink she could die and that's- that's really not good. It's on another level.

STOP CRYING MUM PLEASE.

Connor doesn't know what to do. Where to turn. Because it's not so simple, is it? He can't tell anyone- nobody but Imogen, and he can't even tell _her_ everything- because there's no one to listen. Not to something this serious.

He's not stupid. He knows his mother needs help. More help than she can get from her emotionally screwed-up son, anyway.

It's just- who can he even tell? He can't tell a teacher; not a soul at Waterloo Road, because Christine will lose her job and what the hell will happen to them, then? He can't tell a teacher and he's told the logistics to his girlfriend, and that doesn't leave anybody else.

SHUT UP JUST SHUT UP, PLEASE.

He sits up, still in his bed. He holds his face in his hands for a few moments, and then he drags himself up and races down the stairs.

His mother is on the floor, down on her knees, clawing at her face with her fingernails, mixing the tears with blotchy red patches.

'Mum,' Connor says, and then he's leaning over her, trying to put his arm around her, calm her down, anything.

Christine pulls away from him with force.

'Connor, I need you to-'

But Connor is already shaking his head. 'I can't, Mum, I can't.'

'I need it!' Christine protests, shaking. 'I need it, Connor, can't you see? I _need_ it, please, please I need it-'

'It's not good for you-'

'Don't you tell me what is and isn't good for me!' she snaps. 'I know what I need. I know what I need. It'll help me-'

'Mum, you can't,' says Connor and he sounds desperate and why can't she see that?

PLEASE MUM LISTEN TO ME.

'I can. I need it Connor. Look at me!' Christine puts her hands on his shoulders, and he feels her fingernails digging hard into his skin, even through the layers of clothing on top. 'Look at me! I need it. I'll be okay if I have it.'

He shakes his head.

'I can't-' he chokes out.

'Get out,' Christine breathes. 'Get out and don't come back until you've got me something to drink. Listen to me, Connor. You need to get me something- anything...'

They're both on their feet now, and Christine is pushing him towards the front door aggressively with force. She is crying and Connor feels tears pricking in the corner of his eyes but he won't cry. He won't cry.

CAN'T YOU SEE?

Christine fumbles with the lock, not an easy task with shaking hands as such as hers. She swings the front door open, not caring when it hits her son in the side of the head. She shoves him out of the door.

'You heard me, Connor Mulgrew- don't come back unless you have something to drink. I need it, Connor. It'll help. Please. Just one drink. Anything-'

Her eyes are pleading and her voice is raspy and desperate.

She slams the door in his face.

x

Connor sits on the road outside his house fighting back tears for what seems like hours but really, it's only been a few minutes.

He won't cry. He won't. He just- needs a moment to gather himself.

He doesn't know what to do. What he _can_ do. He doesn't want to see his mother suffer, but the thought of her burning her throat with vodka makes him feel sick. No. He can't.

Connor reaches into his pocket, searching for his phone and panicking momentarily, not knowing whether or not he's left it lying on his bed and- yes, he's got it. He types in a number he knows by heart, his fingers slamming onto the little keys and then he waits. He waits as it dials and his heart is thumping.

Imogen picks up on the fourth ring, and Connor's face lights up.

'Imogen, can I meet you, please?' he says, not caring how clingy on desperate he sounds because it's Imogen and she'll understand, won't she?

'Connor, what's happened?' she asks anxiously, knowing something's wrong just by the tone of his voice and he's never met anyone who cared this much.

'I'll- explain later,' he replies. 'Just- please, can I see you?'

Imogen pauses. His heart plummets for a second. 'Of course,' she says. 'I'll meet you- around that park, near your place. Okay?'

'Will you be able to get here alright?' he asks.

Connor can't see her, but he knows she'd smile a little bit at that. 'I'll manage. I won't be long. Hold up, okay?'

'Okay,' he says. 'Imogen- thanks.'

'It's alright, Connor. Really.'

She cuts off the call and he starts to walk, not sparing one last glance at his front door as he trails away, trying not to spare a thought for his mother, no doubt curled up on the kitchen floor dreaming of another drink.

He thinks it must be bad if she can't even calm herself down enough to go out and get some herself. Not that he'd let her if she did, and-

He can't think. Not here. Not now.

x

Connor is sitting on a bench when she approaches him.

Imogen smiles at him, taking a seat down beside him. 'Are you okay?' she asks.

Connor nods. 'Yeah. No. I dunno.'

'What happened?'

I CAN'T TELL YOU.

'Mum-' he takes a deep breath. 'My mum- she can't drink, right, she's sick- and she's- she's not taking it very well. She needs a drink.'

Imogen frowns. 'Sick?'

'If she has another drink, it might kill her. I dunno,' he doesn't want to go into detail, doesn't want to release the details of something he finds so daunting. 'And yeah, she's trying to stop. She hasn't touched a drink since she found out. And she's been getting pretty bad but- but this has been the worst.'

Connor doesn't realise that he's shaking until Imogen takes hold of his hand. Her touch is warm against his skin.

I'M SORRY.

'I don't know what to do,' his voice cracks and he _will not cry_.

'Oh, Connor,' Imogen says. 'How bad is she?'

'She's- bad. She's shaking and crying and- like, freaking out a lot. And she kicked me out of the front door and says I can't come back unless I bring her drink and- I don't know what to do, Imogen, what am I meant to do?'

'You can't deal with this all alone,' Imogen says, shaking her head. 'It's too much, Connor.'

'Who can I tell, though?' he argues. 'There's no one who will listen.'

'I'll listen, I'll always listen. You know that, yeah?'

'I know,' Connor says. 'I called you, didn't I? You're the only one I trust, but- but you don't know what I should do, either, do you?'

Imogen is quiet for a fraction of a second. 'No, I don't.'

'And there's no one else.'

'What about Mr Clarkson? Mrs Diamond? Anyone?'

Connor shakes his head. 'They'd tell Mr Byrne. Mum would lose her job.'

Imogen strokes Connor's hand softly. 'I- That must be so difficult.'

'It is,' Connor sighs. 'I don't know what she expects me to do.'

'It's not your responsibility. It shouldn't be like this for you.'

'But it is, and it's not mum's fault, is it? She's just- addicted. She doesn't have anything else.'

'She has you,' Imogen points out.

'I'm not enough.'

'There must be something you can do...'

Connor shakes his head, because there isn't, and he's stuck, and his head hurts and his cheek hurts where Christine struck him and he doesn't want to listen anymore, so he tilts his head to the side and Imogen meets her half way, and he kisses her softly.

She kisses him back for a few moments, and then she pulls away.

'You can't ignore it, Connor, you're going to have to do something eventually.'

He kisses her again because he knows she's right.

x

Connor finds his mother drinking just days later, and his heart sinks.

'I thought you were going to stop,' he says, and his voice is trembling. He finds himself shaking from the hurt, the betrayal, the anger and the way he fucking believed every damn word she said. Why did he do that?

PLEASE, MUM.

Christine glares at him as she takes another swig of the vodka. 'No need,' she says. 'What? Stop looking at me like that. I'm your mother. Why don't you r-respect me?'

Connor shakes his head. 'I wish you weren't,' he spits.

'Excuse me?'

'You're not a mother. Not really. We just happen to share the same blood and surname. That's all you are to me.'

'Go to your room, Connor,' Christine hisses. 'Get out of my sight.'

I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

He hides out in his room for a couple of hours and thinks, thinks about how she's lied to him and how he doesn't know his father and how this is what his life is, all his life ever has been. Christine fucks things up for herself- and him, and them, and he tries his best to pick up the pieces, though he's far from perfect himself.

It's just- he doesn't know what to do anymore.

x

'I'm not your punching bag, Connor,' Imogen sighs, and there's a shade of hurt to her voice Connor has never really heard before, nor does he ever want to hear again.

I'M SORRY.

'I know,' he says desperately. 'I'm sorry.'

He doesn't tell her the truth, he tells her a few brief things about Christine and her drinking and she tells him it can't go on forever, like he doesn't know that already. He can't tell her his secret because it's the biggest secret of all. It's dangerous and really fucking stupid, but Connor doesn't care.

What was going through his mind when he went to set the benches alight- he couldn't really say, because it's not at all that simple.

I CAN'T STAND THIS.

He goes to Imogen's after school, and he forgets.

They sit up in her bedroom. Her mother isn't around, and so Imogen loosens up a little. A lot. They sit on her bed, Connor's arm snaked around her waist and their lips meeting ever so gently.

'You chose me,' Imogen says, and her voice is strange.

'What?'

'You chose me over your mum.'

I'D CHOOSE YOU ANY DAY.

'Oh. Yeah.'

'That- it means a lot, that's all.'

Connor forces a smile. He wants to wash the guilt away, but he can't. He wants to burn it away, watch the flames greedily ignite and spark and lick away at every surrounding and every emotion until everything turns to ashes and he can't feel anything anymore. But he can't.

'You're more important than she is.'

'Don't say that,' Imogen says, and her dark hair falls over her face, but she's smiling. 'She's your mum.'

'Don't remind me.'

Imogen laughs half-heartedly, but he knows she could never understand. Because Sally may be interfering and over-protective, and maybe she's provocative and in Imogen's words a _slut_ but at least she doesn't swig back the vodka as easily as breathing; at least she doesn't drown her sorrows in a glass bottle. At least Sally's not addicted to alcohol in such a way that Christine cares more about the drink than her own flesh and blood.

x

Connor sets alight a pile of dead leaves and dried wood in his back yard, and watches as the fire ignites with a sort of satisfaction that takes a little bit of feeling away.

Christine comes home from the pub smelling of drink and she calls him a freak. Connor's hand aches to reach up and smack the drunken smirk off of her face, but then she'd switch it all around and Connor would be in the wrong, as if he isn't always anyway.

FUCK YOU MUM.

He sits in his bedroom after Christine stamps out the fire, the emotions and the pain building up even more. He is holding his lighter in his hand, igniting a flame every few seconds, his fingers itching to drag the lit flame over his duvet or his clothing until everything is glowing red-orange-amber.

Connor swiftly moves the lighter, still lit, and places it against his arm. He allows the flame to burn against his skin for a few moments, not really noticing or caring much for the stinging pain as the skin tears away and he is left with a great red gash covering a patch of skin. It should hurt more than it does, he feels a little numb.

I CAN'T HEAR YOU.

And he wonders how fucked up he must be if he resorts to burning his own skin when nothing else is available.

x

The flames lick up a rotting pile of old newspapers, and he feels the tiniest bit alive.

**As I said, this story is a bit messy, but I'd be really grateful if you left a review c:**


End file.
